З життя
Повертаюся з роботи: двері замкнені зсередини.
Виходжу з роботи й повертаюсь додому. Двері зачинені зсередини.
Стукаю. Відчиняє мені жінка. В моєму фартуху і з моєю кухарною ложкою в руках. Я була в шоці. Більше того, вона запросила мене в дім і повідомила, що мій чоловік скоро прийде і все пояснить.
У квартирі — безлад. Повсюди валізи та торби з одягом. Розібрані меблі вздовж стін. Діти граються з іграшками нашої дитини.
Йду на кухню, питаю, хто вона така і що вони тут роблять. Вона знову про чоловіка каже, що він сам усе пояснить.
Що я мала подумати? Вона не родичка — усіх його родичів я знаю. Не колишня дружина — у нас у обох перший шлюб. Подруга? Знайома? Сказала б, не стала б нагнітати інтригу. Коханка? Звісно ж! Привів її в наш дім, зараз прийде і скаже збирати речі. Логічно? Логічно.
Схопила я жінку і потягла до виходу. Вона кричить, діти плачуть. Витягла в коридор і сказала збиратися. Дала 10 хвилин, щоб їхнього духу в квартирі не було. Вона вперлася. Сказала, що я пожалію і мій чоловік мені цього не пробачить. Ну точно — коханка. Останні сумніви розвіялися.
Вона відмовилася йти. У нас квартира оформлена на мене, хоч і купували в шлюбі. Чоловік — співвласник, але про це ніде не написано. Викликала поліцію. Сказала, що в мою квартиру проникли і крадуть.
Я не збрехала — у неї все ще була моя кухарна ложка в руках. І звідки я знала, навіщо їй це? Може, вона саме за цим і прийшла?
Поліція приїхала разом із чоловіком. Він почав заспокоювати їх. Розповів, що дав ключ від квартири своєї родички, а мене не попередив. Мені погрожували штрафом за хибний виклик.
Щойно поліцейські пішли, ця дама почала жалітися моєму чоловікові на мою нестриманість. Казала, що мене лікувати треба.
— Хто це і що вона тут робить? — ледве стримувалась, щоб не кричати.
— Це — Фаїна. І у неї зараз складний період. Поки що вона поживе в нас, — пояснив чоловік.
— Хто вона, на вашу милість, така? — почала кричати.
— Заспокойся. Вона — дружина Антона, пам’ятаєш, розповідав я тобі — ми з ним служили разом. Він загинув, а його мати вигнала Фаїну з дому. Їй нікуди йти. Не працює — в декреті, пенсію ще не призначили. Квартира не Антона була, а його матері. Тож поки Фая поживе тут. Я повинен Антону. Кохана, це не обговорюється.
Чоловік промовляв, а на обличчі тієї жінки розквітала усмішка. Вона геть не виглядала на безутішну вдову, яку вигнали з дітьми з дому! Я їй не вірила.
— Мишенько, ти рагу хочеш? Я там приготувала… — кокетливо кліпає очима ця вдовиця.
Тут я зірвалася. Забрала свою ложку, пішла на кухню і вилила її рагу в унітаз. Не дам тут всім розпоряджатися. Не дивно, що її з дому вигнали, нахабну таку.
— Ти, хворенька, чим я дітей годуватиму? — загула та Фая.
— Не ори, ти в гостях. Не подивлюся на дітей, вилетиш звідси, як миленька. Зрозуміла?
Чоловік попросив не сваритися. Я відмовилася. Мені ця дама в квартирі не потрібна.
— Це і моя квартира теж, не забувай. Треба буде Фає і дітям реєстрацію зробити. Ти сама поїдеш, чи мені через суд свою частку виділити спершу?
Шок. А вона ще ширше усміхається. Сказала чоловікові, щоб сам сходив у садок за дитиною, зібралася і пішла. До подруги. Для мозкового штурму.
— Може, їй справді потрібна допомога? — припустила Оля, моя найкраща подруга, майже сестра.
— Ні. — покрутила я головою. — Ті, кому допомога потрібна, так себе не ведуть. Вони просять. А ця стоїть, як господиня. Щось тут не чисто. Та й на жінку, яка втратила чоловіка, вона не схожа. От уяви, ти овдовіла…
— Я ще і заміж не виходила! — перебила мене Олішна.
— А ти уяви, що в тебе є чоловік. І ти овдовіла, тебе вигнали з дітьми на вулицю. Але тебе прихистив армійський товариш твого чоловіка. І ти стоїш звабливо усміхаєшся йому, а його жінка для тебе — пусте місце. Та не буває так!
— Може, вона сама по собі така — всім усміхається.
— Ні. Тут є підвох, і я до нього докопаюсь. Тащи ноут! — скомандувала я.
Я переглянула всіх друзів чоловіка і знайшла трьох Антонів. Один — 46 років, він не міг служити з моїм чоловіком. Другий — син наших знайомих. А ось третій — той самий, і в сімейному положенні вказано ім’я Фаїна.
— Ось він. Був онлайн місяць тому, — ткнула я в екран.
— Родичів подивися, за прізвищем.
— Не вчи батька, зараз знайду.
Знайшли якусь Тетяну. Очевидно, сестру того Антона. І я їй написала. Висловила співчуття через Антона і запитала, за що вдова була вигнана.
Дівчина була не онлайн, і ми стали терпіти відповіді за парою чашок чаю.
Тетяна відповіла десь через годину. Вона подумала, що я — шахрайка. Написала, що її брат живий, і попросила її не турбувати. Я знову написала їй, все пояснивши. Відповіддю були смайли зі сміхом і порада вигнати аферистку-Файку до всіх чортів.
Якщо коротко, то Фая — марнотратка. І Антон, їдучи у тривале відрядження, залишив гроші на дружину і дітей своїй матері. А Фая намагалася випросити кошти собі на щось. Їй було відмовлено. Тоді вона здала свою квартиру на 5 місяців до повернення чоловіка, отримала всю суму одразу і стала думати, де ж перебути з дітьми. Так, щоб безкоштовно.
Тоді вона згадала розповіді Антона про мого чоловіка, за яким числився борг. І написала йому, навраши з три короби.
Ми з Олішною попросили у Тетяни номер телефону її брата на відрядження і відразу зібралися до мене додому, виселяти брехливу вдовицю.
Ви б бачили обличчя мого чоловіка, коли я дала йому телефон і він почув голос свого товариша. Живого і здорового.
За Файкою приїхала її свекруха. Ударивши підзатильник невістці, вона забрала і брехуху, і онуків. Поки її чоловік, батько Антона, разом із моїм чоловіком виносили речі.
На чоловіка я дуже образилася. Не порадившись, він привів у наш дім цю хитру бабенку. Загалом, я залишила чоловіка з дитиною, а сама поїхала з Олішною продовжувати банкет.
З Тетяною ми підтримали переписку, навіть домовилися зустрітися. Наприкінці вона написала, що її братові не пощастило з дружиною. І знаєте, я з нею згодна.
Чоловік поклявся, що більше такого не повториться. І ніхто не переступить поріг нашої квартири без мого відома.
На згадку від Фаїни мені залишилися джинси — вона встигла розпакувати якісь речі і забула ці штани в нас. Новесенькі, з бирочкою, якраз мого розміру. Я їх собі залишила, як компенсацію моральної шкоди.
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He Hated His Wife. Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together—Every Morning He Saw Her Face, But Only in the Last Year Did Her Habits Begin to Grate on Him, Especially the Way She Stretched Out Her Arms in Bed and Sleepily Said, “Good Morning, Sunshine! It’s Going to Be a Wonderful Day.” At First He’d Loved Her Body, Her Freedom, Her Morning Rituals—Now Even Her Nakedness Filled Him with Anger. She Knew of His Three-Year Affair, But Time Had Healed Her Wounded Pride and Left Only a Sad Sense of Uselessness. Secretly, She Struggled with a Terminal Illness, Finding Solace in a Quiet Village Library. When He Finally Decided to Leave Her for His Lover, He Discovered a Hidden Folder with Her Medical Records—The Diagnosis Gave Her 6–18 Months to Live, and Six Months Had Already Passed. At a Restaurant Where They Once Celebrated Their Anniversary, She Waited for Him in the Autumn Sunshine, Tears Flowing as She Realized Her Life Was Slipping Away Unnoticed. In the End, He Cared for Her Every Moment Until She Passed, Realizing Too Late the Depth of His Loss; Under Her Pillow He Found Her New Year’s Wish: “To Be Happy with Him Until the End of My Days.” That Same Year, He’d Wished for Freedom—And in the End, Each Received Exactly What They’d Requested…
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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “You belong in a care home, and you know it! Get out of our family!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, my voice breaking with emotion. The target of my outrage was my cousin, Dima. Lord, I loved him so much as a child—his golden hair, cornflower-blue eyes, cheerful nature. That was Dima all over. Family gatherings would often bring us all together around the table, but out of all my cousins, it was always Dima who stood out. With his silver tongue, he could weave tales like intricate lace, and he was a gifted artist. By the end of any evening, he’d have sketched five or six pencil drawings with ease. I would marvel at his work, unable to tear myself away from its beauty, and quietly stash his drawings in my desk for safekeeping, cherishing his creativity. Dima was two years older than me. When he was fourteen, his mother died suddenly and unexpectedly—she simply never woke up. Everyone wondered what would become of Dima. They looked first to his biological father, but finding him was not easy—his parents had long been divorced, and his father had another family and wasn’t about to disrupt his “peaceful life.” Then the rest of the relatives collectively shrugged—each had their own families and worries. Suddenly, our extended family was nowhere to be found when needed most. So, with two children of their own, my parents agreed to take Dima in—the late woman was my father’s younger sister, after all. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But… On his very first day in our home, I noticed something odd about my favourite cousin’s behaviour. Trying to bring him some comfort, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just tell us.” Immediately, Dima answered, “A model railway set.” This toy was quite expensive, and his wish surprised me. I thought—your mum just died, the most important person in your world, and all you can think about is a train set? How could he? Still, my parents bought it for him immediately. But soon Dima’s requests snowballed. “Buy me a tape recorder, jeans, a branded jacket…” This was the 1980s. Not only were these things pricey, but difficult to find. Yet my parents, depriving their own children, tried to fulfil every wish of the orphan. My brother and I endured this in silence, understanding it was for Dima. When Dima turned sixteen, he started chasing after girls. He became infatuated with me—his own cousin. But I, being sporty and quick, dodged his advances, even fighting him off physically at times and ending up in tears. My parents never knew—I didn’t want to upset them. Most kids keep such things to themselves. After I made it clear I wasn’t interested, Dima quickly moved on to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. Dima also stole from us, brazenly and without shame. I remember saving my school lunch money in a piggy bank for a present for my parents—one day, it was empty. Dima swore blind he hadn’t touched it, didn’t so much as blush. My soul was torn to pieces—how could he steal in the very house we shared? Dima shattered our family’s trust, as if nothing mattered to him. I began to hate him. That’s when I screamed, with all my might: “Get out of our family!” I let rip at Dima, said more than fit in a hat—words I can’t take back. My mother barely managed to calm me down. Since then, Dima ceased to exist for me. I avoided him in every way. Later, it turned out the other relatives all knew what “sort” Dima was—they lived nearby and had seen plenty. Only our family, living farther away, had been in the dark. Dima’s former teachers even warned my parents: “You shouldn’t have taken him in. Dima will only ruin your own children.” At a new school, he met Kate, who would fall head-over-heels for Dima and marry him right after graduation. They had a daughter. Kate patiently endured his wild whims, endless lies, and countless betrayals. As the old saying goes: “single and you suffer, married and it’s double.” Dima was later conscripted for military service in Kazakhstan. There, he formed a “second family”—apparently during breaks from service. He fathered a son. After his discharge, Dima stayed in Kazakhstan, but Kate went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back to his family. My parents never heard a word of thanks from Dima—not that they expected it. Now, Dmitry Eugene is sixty. He’s a devout parishioner at the local English church, with Kate and five grandchildren. Everything seems fine, but the bitterness from my relationship with Dima still lingers… A taste too bitter, even for honey.
BITTERNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SOUL You should have been in a childrens home ages ago! Get out of...
POSTAGE STAMP… “Ilya’s left Katya,” Mum sighed heavily. “What do you mean?” I didn’t understand. “I don’t get it myself,” Mum said. “He was away on business for a month, came back all changed. Told Katya he loves someone else.” “Did he really say that? Must be some mistake—how awful,” I fumed at Katya’s husband. “Sonia called me—said Katya was unwell, had to call an ambulance. Turned out Katya had some kind of neurological swallowing disorder,” Mum blinked rapidly. “Alright, Mum, calm down. Honestly, Katya shouldn’t have put Ilya on a pedestal like that. She was always dancing attendance on him. Now she’s left picking up the pieces. Poor Katya. I hope Ilya isn’t serious about this new woman—he loves Katya and Sonia,” I refused to believe what I’d heard. …Ilya and Katya’s wild passion, their whirlwind romance—they married after just two months. Their daughter Sonia was born. Life was measured, calm, and then—everything tumbled downhill… Like a Rolling Boulder… I rushed straight to my sister. Some conversations are hardest with those closest to you. “Katya, how could this happen? Did Ilya even explain? Has he lost his mind?” I barraged my sister. “I’m in shock myself, Nina. Who is this woman? Did she cast some sort of spell? Ilya dashed off to her, obsessed. Threw his stuff in a bag, left. Feels like I’ve been dragged across concrete. I don’t understand…” Katya sobbed endlessly. “Let’s wait, Katya. Maybe your runaway will come to his senses. These things happen,” I hugged her. He Didn’t Come Back. Ilya made a new life in another city, and with a new wife. Ksenia was eighteen years Ilya’s senior, but the age gap didn’t prevent their happiness. “Souls don’t have ages,” Ksenia said. Ilya was smitten. Ksenia became his lodestar. She had a tough streak—could be tender, could be ruthless. Ilya adored her. Every time he’d marvel, “Where have you been all my life, Ksenia? I’ve searched half my life for you…” Meanwhile, Katya decided to seek vengeance—all men now fair game. Beautiful, she turned heads everywhere. She had a fling with her boss, entranced him. “Katya, marry me. I’ll make you rich. You’ll be treated like a queen.” “No thanks, Dmitri—I’ve had enough marriages… Let’s go to the seaside instead. I want Sonia to get some fresh air,” Katya winked. “Alright, my dear…” Sasha was simpler—helped around the flat, did her renovations, but never proposed—he was already married. Katya strung both along—no love, just distraction from her misery. She still yearned for Ilya, saw him in dreams, woke up in useless tears. Couldn’t let go of those memories. “How do you un-weld someone from your life? What did I do wrong? I was loyal, caring—never argued…” …Years went by. Katya’s life was split between Dmitri’s tender invites, Sasha’s handyman help. …Sonia was twenty when she decided to visit her father. Bought a train ticket, wondered how to address “the other woman.” Arrived in a new city. …Rang the bell. “You must be Sophia,” an interesting woman opened the door. “Mum is much prettier…” Sonia thought. “Ksenia, right?” Sonia guessed. “Yes, come in. Your dad’s not home but will be soon,” Ksenia led her to the kitchen. “How are you? How’s your mum?” Ksenia fussed, “Tea, coffee?” “Ksenia, how did you manage to steal my dad away? He loved my mum—I know that for sure,” Sonia looked her straight in the eye. “Sophia, life’s unpredictable. Love has no guarantees. Sometimes passion sweeps in and one meeting changes everything. Fate intervenes. Sometimes, you just have to change partners in the dance. It can’t be explained,” Ksenia slumped into a chair. “But can’t you just stop? Think of your duty to family…” Sonia couldn’t grasp Ksenia’s reasoning, glaring at the woman she loathed. “You can’t, child,” Ksenia replied simply. “Thank you for your honesty,” Sonia refused the coffee. “Sophia, want some cheeky advice? A man is like a postage stamp—the more you spit on him, the better he sticks. And in general, you need to be steel one day, velvet the next… By the way, your dad and I had a big row.” “Thanks for the tip. Should I wait for Dad?” Sonia asked anxiously. “I’m not sure. He’s been living in a hotel this week. Here’s the address,” Ksenia scribbled it on a scrap of paper. Sonia was relieved—now she could talk to her dad alone. “Goodbye, thanks for the coffee,” she left quickly. She found the hotel, knocked on his door. Ilya was happy—if a bit embarrassed—to see his daughter. “I was planning on returning today—after the row and all…” “That’s your business, Dad. I just wanted to see you,” Sonia carefully took her father’s hand. “How’s your mum?” Ilya asked. “All’s well. We’ve gotten used to life without you.” They spent a warm evening in the hotel room—talking, laughing, shedding quiet tears. “Dad, do you love Ksenia?” Sonia suddenly asked. “Very much. I’m sorry, darling,” Ilya answered surely. “Got it. I need to run—my train’s soon,” Sonia gathered her things. “Come by, Sonia—we’re family, after all,” Ilya’s eyes dropped. “Of course… see you soon,” Sonia left. …Returning home, she decided to follow Ksenia’s advice: Don’t love, don’t treasure, don’t believe empty men’s words. Brush them off… …But three years later, the right man came along: Kirill. He was made for Sonia, sent by fate… She knew instantly, sensed it… When you meet your true love, nothing else even tempts you… Kirill wrapped his woman in his heart and never let go. He touched her soul in ways unseen. Sonia fell deeply, utterly, without conditions…
THE POSTAGE STAMP Olivers left Emily, Mum sighed heavily. What do you mean? I didnt understand. Im as lost as...
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MY HUSBAND MATTERS MORE THAN BITTER GRIEVANCES James, thats the last straw! Im done, were getting a divorce! Dont bother...
For two years, Maria was only the carer for his mother. Maria managed to marry a highly respected English gentleman—envied by all her friends. Her husband owned a successful business, a luxurious home in the suburbs, several cars, and a cottage in the countryside—all by the age of thirty-two. Maria, meanwhile, had just finished her university degree and worked for a year as a teacher. That summer, they married. After the wedding, her husband insisted there was no need for his wife to work for pennies. He wanted her to stay home and prepare for children. Maria didn’t object. The first year of marriage was like a fairy tale: travelling together, making memories, buying expensive clothes. Yet Maria rarely had a chance to wear her new outfits. Her friends were busy with work and family, and her husband was always attending events—never taking Maria with him. She grew bored. Unable to have children, Maria’s feelings for her husband began to fade. Each day, after housework, she wandered room to room, thinking about her future. Another year passed. Her husband was rarely home, always returning late, exhausted and irritable, complaining that business wasn’t going well. First, he told Maria to spend less. Then he demanded an account of every purchase and expense, insisting they could live well for half the cost. Maria was worried. She wanted to go back to work, but couldn’t find a job in her field. She enrolled on a course, but then her mother-in-law fell ill. Maria had to care for her for two years when her husband moved his mother into their home. Maria did everything—she was the nurse and companion. Her husband came home even less. After his mother passed, Maria’s husband grew increasingly distant, barely spoke, avoided her gaze, and spent most of his time at work. Maria couldn’t understand what was happening until she visited her old mother-in-law’s flat—where she hadn’t been in ages. Behind a closed door, she heard a child crying, even though she thought the flat was empty. She rang the bell. A young woman answered. Maria learned that her husband had started a second family before his mother’s illness and moved them into his mother’s flat. It was a shock. Maria knew she couldn’t save her marriage. She left for another city to stay with her aunt, practically empty-handed, with only a small handbag. She didn’t want a single item to remind her of her marriage—and how tragically it had turned out…
For two years, Mary was nothing more than a nurse to his mother. I remember how Mary managed to marry...